


Radio Silence

by tsuristyle



Category: SMAP
Genre: Gen, Kimura's version of subtle, sharing a beer and cigarettes, your slash mileage may vary
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-30
Updated: 2016-12-30
Packaged: 2018-09-13 10:12:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9119092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsuristyle/pseuds/tsuristyle
Summary: Kimura knows coming to Nakai is not going to get him words of comfort, which means he probably doesn't want words of comfort, just, apparently, to mope on Nakai's couch in silence while watching television.Fuck, fuck, fuck. Nakai puts the beer down and goes to look for his cigarettes.(Inspired by the rumor about Kimura's family going to live in France for a while. Written July 2015.)





	

It's ten o' clock at night, and Kimura Takuya is lying on his couch.  
  
Nakai stands in the kitchen doorway, holding two beers, and thinks not for the first time that this is a really bizarre situation to find himself in. He can count on one hand the number of times he and Kimura have voluntarily hung out together, and most of them involve not even being old enough to drink, at least not legally. It's not like they have any interests in common. Or anything to talk about. Hell, they don't even know each other's phone number, although Nakai's willing to admit that one is more his own weirdness that his bandmate actually giving a damn one way or the other.  
  
Nonetheless, it is ten o' clock at night, and Kimura fucking Takuya is lying on his ancient, worn-down couch like he owns it.  
  
The condensation forming on the cans gets him to step forward before he does something stupid like drop them, and with no small amount of trepidation he sets one on the low table in front of Kimura and opens the other with a metallic pop, taking a long sip in hopes that it will make him feel less awkward standing in his own living room. It's not like he can sit down anyway.  
  
"Thanks," Kimura mumbles. He makes no motion to reach for the beer, instead continuing to stare at the television.  
  
Right, then. Nakai takes another sip and stares at the television, too, because something is clearly wrong with his bandmate and he has no idea what the fuck to do. Why come to him, anyway? Goro's the one Kimura actually talks to. Even Shingo or Tsuyoshi-- yes, even _Tsuyoshi_ \-- would be a better option. Kimura knows coming to Nakai is not going to get him words of comfort, which means he probably doesn't want words of comfort, just, apparently, to mope on Nakai's couch in silence while watching television.  
  
Fuck, fuck, fuck. Nakai puts the beer down and goes to look for his cigarettes, which are not on the table where they should be.  
  
It's not that he _minds_ Kimura being here, exactly. He pads into his bedroom, rifling through his bag in the dark. They are grown men and are well past the days of tearing at each other (literally, on occasion) over clashing ambitions. Or clashing _commitments_. He drops his bag empty-handed and turns to his nightstand-- not that he's stupid enough to smoke in bed, but of course there they are, dragged from room to room like a security blanket that will kill him someday. Anyway, he doesn't resent Kimura, not anymore, because Kimura's committed to SMAP now and SMAP is Nakai's home.  
  
He lights up a cigarette and rolls his eyes at himself in the dark. It doesn't make it any less true, though.  
  
He paces back out into the living room trailing smoke and feeling a bit steadier. Kimura is still stretched out on the couch, although he has the decency to look like he's aware that he should feel guilty about it now. Nakai inhales and is about to get to the point when he notices that his beer is now in front of Kimura, blatantly facing the couch where his bandmate is making all appearances to have not moved an inch. It's Kimura's version of subtle, which isn't remotely subtle at all.  
  
Nakai snaps. "The _fuck_ is wrong with you? You want a drag of my cigarette, too, or are you good with just taking over my living room?" So much for comforting words, but really, what the fuck.  
  
Kimura's eyes flick to the beer immediately, and this time he does look a little guilty. But he still doesn't move, and the next thing he says is: "Can I?"  
  
Nakai snatches up his beer, staring incredulously at his bandmate. Okay, _now_ things are officially bizarre. He really should just kick him out, send him back home to where-- there isn't anyone at all, Nakai recalls distantly, because Kimura's other commitment has uprooted to another country for who knows how long and he's been going back to an empty house since.  
  
That doesn't explain why he's _here_ \-- but Nakai finds himself wordlessly handing Kimura the cigarette. His bandmate props himself up on one arm, sucking in a long drag and exhaling, eyes falling shut for a moment as if he's savoring the taste and smell. Nakai almost feels jealous; he's smoked the same ones for so long he honestly can't tell anymore, only that he's probably identifiable from miles away by the scent by now.  
  
"Thanks." Kimura fidgets with the cigarette for a second, looking down at it. "Needed it."  
  
Nakai glances at the beer in his hand, its rim invisibly marked with bandmate weirdness, and decides that it's probably not the cigarette itself Kimura is talking about. Alright then. Kimura wants to lie on his couch and drink his beer and smoke his cigarettes and generally insinuate himself into Nakai's space like an oversized shaggy-haired dog. If that's what he needs to exorcise months of accumulated loneliness, Nakai's not going to complain. As long as he doesn't try to talk about it.  
  
He catches Kimura's eye as he takes the cigarette back, and sits on the floor, leaning back against the couch. "Why," he asks neutrally, lifting the beer to his mouth with only a tiny bit of hesitation. He's a grown man perfectly capable of sharing lip cooties with another man, after all.  
  
Kimura sinks back down with a sigh, resting his head on his arm. The television fills in a long stretch of silence until he finally answers, "Smells like SMAP."  
  
Nakai rests his arms on his knees, looking at the beer and cigarette dangling from his fingers. Cigarettes and beer and the ancient couch Nakai has had for years. The smell of Nakai, the smell of SMAP. Like a dog, he supposes, home is what smells familiar.  
  
He smirks, raising the cigarette and handing the beer back without looking. "Gross," he says, and they watch television for the rest of the evening without another word.


End file.
